


Ouroboros

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Anal Sex, Exhibitionism, F/M, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Self-cest, doctorbation - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 15:31:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3655488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the last thing either of them should be doing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ouroboros

**Author's Note:**

> For anon, who prompted: eleven x twelve (i cant even context with this prompt sorry)

"There is something," Clara says hesitantly. "I mean, if it weirds you out, you know, that’s fine, we don’t need to do it-"

He’d fucked up, is the situation. He’d fucked up royally and he’d offered his apology, and then he’d offered recompense. Whatever she wanted to do to him, she could do. Whatever she wanted so long as she’d just stop looking at him like that. To be fair, he usually does whatever she wants. This is different, though. This is - extra. He’d be lying if he said that didn’t add a certain thrill.

He’s committing grievous crimes against the temporal web, is the situation. He’s crossing his own timeline. He’s… well. He’s propositioning himself. 

"You want me to do what?" Younger him, tweed-and-chin him, is staring at him, goggle-eyed. The TARDIS is making an exasperated noise.

"It’s not so much what I want _you_ to do, it’s what I want you to let _me_ do.” He kisses him, because he knows enough about himself to understand that sometimes words aren’t enough to get the point across. He kisses him, gently at first, just the barest brushing of lips, then with a touch more force. Enough, hopefully, to disperse any doubts about what’s happening here.

"Oh. Oh! Ohhh." Realization gradually dawns. "I’m a married man, Doctor."

"So am I, _Doctor_ ,” he growls, reaching up to yank that stupid bow-tie off. Kisses him again, hands cupping his face, massaging that spot behind his ears that always used to make him melt.

Doesn’t take much to back him down the steps. Always a bit mindless with what his body’s doing, this one. Besides, he’s got home field advantage. His ship, his rules. He pushes the younger man against his work bench, flips him around with one hand firm on his back, sweeping all the bits and bobs to the floor, before one of them gets a widget embedded in their - wherever. He shudders to think.

Their timeline warping and balking around them, stuttering, misaligning. And that’s another thrill, isn’t it? The last thing either of them should be doing, and they’re doing it. He massages himself through his trousers, considering the event about to take place. The shape of it, the fact of it, a rock diverting the river that time is. Him and himself. He’s having pronoun trouble. The kid needs a name. It’s best to keep at least a modicum of distance, in this sort of scenario. He’s the Doctor and this is - the kid.

And he is a kid. He’s younger, so much younger. Half as old as he is. He hasn’t been to Trenzalore. He thought he’d been so old, back then. Couldn’t possibly get any older. But that’s the way the world works, isn’t it? You think you’re as smart and as mature as you’re ever going to be, then boom, it’s a thousand years later and you’re looking back at yourself, wondering how you managed to be so stupid.

Looking down at yourself, disheveled and bent over a desk. Wondering how you managed to be so open, so trusting. Spreading your own legs apart, marveling at the beautiful lie your body had been. Okay, maybe not everyone did that. It’s what he was doing, anyway.

He remembers that trembling of the thighs, though he’s never seen it from the outside. Not that he recalls, anyway. Remembers that shiver and shake, the keening whine, the wanton thrusts. He’d been kind of a slut, last time around. He reaches around to unbutton the kid’s trousers, pulls them down, rucks his shirt up. Is this how pale his arse was? Is this how pale his arse was now? He is a very pale man. He should change that one of these days.

Activity Kit opened, things dumped out. Rassilon, what had Clara imagined them doing? There’s so much stuff. He fumbles the cap off a bottle of lube, one hand still steady on the kid’s lower back. Squeezes the tube, makes a puddle on the desk, whatever, he dips his free hand in. The desk is probably clean, mostly. Generally speaking he keeps his experiments with biological hazards elsewhere.

He drags a wet line down the kid’s spine and between the cleft of his arse cheeks. Probes in, gently. There’s a squeak, and a “What?!”, the interrobang accompanied by a hair flip. Kid turns his head, face contorted in what would be a raised eyebrow, if he had any eyebrows.

"Oh, don’t act like you’re innocent. I was you. I know what you are. I know what you want. What we both want, truthfully, what we all want, at the end of the day. Some things don’t change. But, logistically speaking, one of us needs to be in charge here." He adds another finger, wriggles around in search of the spot that always used to make him fall apart. He finds it.

Clara in the background moaning, hand down her jeans, with a glassy-eyed stare. He catches her gaze, holds it as he slips his hand loose, runs it up the kid’s back. Lets it go, because he’s having trouble focusing, and because he should let her watch the show. Gingerly, he slides his cock in. Feeling him stretch around the width of him. The push-back, the clench and twitch. Hot and throbbing and that underlying psychic tension, the walls he barely knows how to drop.

And they fit well together. They always do, of course. Like peas in a pod. Like an ouroboros.

 _Blinovitch was an insufferable bore,_ he thinks. It’s the last coherent thought he’ll have in a while. He’s hit the zone, now, the place where his brain buggers off, where he’s just a hard-on and a pair of hands. Just motion and sweat and dumb lust. Gripping the kid’s cock, pumping in time with his thrusts. Wordless cries, could be either of them. Half a mental connection, making a feedback loop, and he’s not sure which one of them he is, if he’s fucking or being fucked. They fall into each other, panting, writhing gracelessly. It’s like coming home. And then he comes, they come, more or less simultaneously. The two of them with the same post-orgasm blush and sigh.

He pulls out, wipes himself off with Activity Kit item #196, a handy freshen-up towelette. Pats the kid on the butt, attempting to convey a message of ‘good job’ and ‘you’ll be fine in a few minutes’ and ‘thank you.’ Going by the moaning and the floppy-limbed slump, not much of that comes across. Oh well.

"We should go, now," he says. "Before the universe implodes or something."

Clara, flushed pink and adjusting herself, nods. They shuffle the kid out, arm in arm, back to his TARDIS. They kiss him, both of them, Clara more tenderly - he isn’t jealous, no - and leave him there to recuperate, to forget why this ever happened, to wonder why he was so sore and sticky. He could come up with some answers, no doubt.

"D’you know," the Doctor says, apropos of not much, "I still wonder what happened to all of your echoes. All those Claras, throughout time and space. Might be interesting to look some of them up."

"Aha. Yes. Could be - interesting. But I think we should save that for later, hmm?" She grins, smooths down his rumpled shirt. "For when you’ve been an _especially_ good boy. Gotta earn these things, Doctor.”


End file.
